


A Golden Age, Cracked and Tarnished

by MercutioLives (orphan_account)



Series: The Carrion King [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Deathfic, Family, Forgiveness, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Royalty, Sickfic, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a reimagining of events, both Arthur and Mordred (along with several knights) survived the battle of Camlann. Reparations were made; new bonds were forged, while others rotted away. Seven years gone, and good King Arthur has died, naming Mordred his successor. As High King, Mordred finds that he is not well-suited. The Romans threaten to return, and the people of Britain grow restive and dissatisfied with the bastard son of their beloved Summer King. Part one of two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Golden Age, Cracked and Tarnished

**Author's Note:**

> This is an attempt at either a novel or a short story project. It will be divided into two main parts, with each part divided into smaller chapters. To clear up any confusion: the overarching work is called "The Carrion King"; part one is called "A Golden Age, Cracked and Tarnished"; the prologue of part one is titled "the setting sun".

I sat at my father's bedside as he lay dying, alone with him for the first time in nearly a fortnight. I watched as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, flinched whenever his face, drawn and grey, tightened in pain. When he croaked a request for water, I rose to gently pour some into his mouth, and when he called out a name in a faint whisper of a voice -- a name other than mine, as often as not, and usually of someone long dead -- I murmured careful reassurances. Anyone who did not know us would see a son comforting his sick father in his last moments, but everyone else saw what was: a sinner doing penitence, trying to do right before time was up. Even when he would rise up for a few moments out of his fevered delirium and recognize me, squeeze my hand and smile, I felt that I was failing in my quest for forgiveness.

It was seven years to the day that we stood on opposite sides of the battlefield. I was then a young and angry man of twenty-four, he a proud and noble king of forty-two. Now, grey and haggard, Arthur Pen-Dragon was a withered husk of the man he had been. No longer the shining ideal of Camelot, he was simply (and at long last, I believe he thought) a man at the end of his life. A month before, not long before he was cut down by disease, he had formally pronounced me heir apparent to the throne of Britain. By then, everyone knew that I was his son, though no one spoke of it; now no one could deny it: I was Crown Prince Mordred, son of the Pen-Dragon and his sister Queen Morgause of Orkney. Gawaine, the first of my half-brothers who, as Arthur's eldest trueborn nephew, had been next in line for the crown until that point, gracefully conceded to me the right to rule. I knew it was because he himself feared the weight of kingship; he had planned to abdicate in favor of Constantine, who was a cousin of Queen Guinevere's, but told me afterward that he felt better about giving it to closer kin.

Of my brothers, Gawaine had never judged me for my birth, even after he had converted to the new religion. Agravaine was my friend, true, but he had taken every opportunity to gibe at me; the twins Gaheris and Gareth grew apart from me after gaining knighthood. I never considered Loholt, one of my father's other bastards, any brother of mine -- he was even more treacherous a snake than I, with thrice the ambition. It came as no surprise to anyone when he was cut down after making an attempt on our father's life. There was another, Amr, whom I only met once. He was older than me by some measure, and was as simple as Loholt was clever. I don't doubt that he's happily married in some faraway castle, the father of many children, with no thought for the man who'd fathered him. As it stands, even as I am a bastard of incest, I am the only product of Arthur's seed who is at hand. No one has forgotten my crimes, even though I was absolved of them publicly, and I don't doubt that I will likely be assassinated within my first year of ruling, but I accepted the crown of princehood for my father's sake.

The winter sun was setting fast, and a quiet knock on the door startled me, pulling me out of my thoughts with a harsh jolt. I didn't want to leave my father, but he had fallen asleep -- a somewhat easy one, if his lack of moaning and tossing were any indication -- so I stood up from my stool and went to the door. I was not surprised to see that it was Kay who was there, as grim-faced and exhausted-looking as I knew I must be. He was here to take my place: as Arthur's foster-brother, I knew it was as much his right as mine, so I stood aside to let him in. The seneschal was getting on in years, showing his age much more clearly than my father in his grey hair and beard, and in the wrinkles that had begun to crease his face. In my youth, he and I had not gotten on, but as the years took longer to come and go, we two had settled into a tacit respect for one another. I was his brother's son, and he was my father's brother. I could never quite think of Kay as my uncle, but our mutual loss of Arthur had served to bring us closer than we'd ever been. Bending creakily forward, Sir Kay kissed my forehead and tried to offer me a shaky smile.

"Get on to your bed, lad," he said to me gruffly; I knew by his tone that he was supressing emotion. I nodded, but was hesitant to go.

"You'll fetch me if -- if anything changes?" I replied, though we both knew I meant "if he dies". It seemed like a sin to actually say it, so we always spoke in this vague sort of code, meanings hidden as poorly as our tears behind quivering masks of fear.

"You know I will. Go on, now. You look about ready to pass out, and I won't have you swooning like a woman in my brother's sickroom." He laughed bleakly, a mirthless bark, and Arthur stirred a little in his bed. Kay and I exchanged anxious glances, and I went out. The corridor was black and silent, the lamps put out; what was usually a relaxing hour for me was made mournful and forboding. I knew deep within, in that way my mother had of knowing without being certain, that I would not see my father alive again. I choked on this realization and the tears came to my eyes, but I managed, at least, to hold onto my dignity until the door to my bedroom was closed and bolted behind me. Then and only then did I feel it safe to buckle to the floor and weep into my knees. Here, leaning against my door with my legs drawn up to my chest, I was only a son grieving his father, as I never had the chance to be elsewhere.

It might have been a few minutes or possibly an hour; no longer, for there was no change in the darkness of the sky, but I did eventually get to my feet and change for bed. I fell asleep quickly and I slumbered hard -- so hard that it felt like no time at all before I felt the insistent prodding of rough fingers at my shoulder. I turned and blinked blearily up at the sleep-blurred form of Sir Kay. Knuckling my eyes to clear my vision, I saw that his face was wet and his eyes red. My stomach clenched and my heart dropped, my breath coming short. I willed him silently not to speak, but it was for nothing.

"It's done, lad," he whispered hoarsely. His hand, callused from years of the sword and of stewardship, groped and found mine, and we both gripped one another's fingers tight enough to turn them white, "It's done. It was quiet. He didn't even once wake from the sleep you left him in." I hardly felt able to cry anymore -- the reality of it had yet to truly take hold, and the remains of my grief and exhaustion had left me dry, yet I gently prised my fingers from Kay's and climbed from my bed. Barefoot and dressed only in breeches and a nightshirt, I walked with him back to my father's room. Arthur lay in his bed, eyes closed but otherwise undisturbed. I had seen many dead men in my thirty-one years, but there was something wholly different about seeing my own father in his lifeless state. Kay nudged me forward, wordlessly permitting me to go over and say my last goodbyes. My throat was closed against anything I might have said. Looking at him, I saw nothing but a dead man, eaten up by sickness, his every feature worn down by pain. I brushed a stray lock of gray-gold hair from his forehead and, bending down, pressed my lips to the place where it had been.

"Go in peace, Father," I whispered at last. I ought to have said something better, perhaps that I loved him, for I never did say it in those last weeks -- and, truly, nowhere near as often as I should have in my entire life -- but I felt that to say such a thing would have been more for myself than for him. He knew, even if I never uttered the words. My vision began to waver again with tears, but I wiped them away and swallowed them down. I would not dishonor my father, myself, or Kay by losing my composure: I was High King now.


End file.
